


Coming Home to Roost

by lizardkid



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 19:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20551676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardkid/pseuds/lizardkid
Summary: After 6000 years on Earth, you learn a thing or two. Things like, there’s a difference between love and worship, no matter what God says. Things like, nobody’s perfect, not even angels. Things like, even after 6000 years of knowing someone, they can still surprise you.





	Coming Home to Roost

He knows I don’t need saving & rescues me anyhow

Our often-misunderstood kind of love is dangerous 

Darling, fill my cup; the bird has come to roost

(Joseph O. Legaspi, _Whom You Love_)

After 6000 years on Earth, you learn a thing or two – whether you’re aware of it or not.

Crowley had been quite happily settled in the latter camp for a good 5990 of those years, convinced that there was nothing that a bunch of ugly, doomed mortals could teach him that he didn’t already know.

At the tender age of 4045-years-old, Crowley had fallen in love with his only friend and nemesis, Aziraphale. The heavenly fucker had been perfectly ignorant of it, of course. Crowley had been for a short while, too. It was inevitable, though, all things considered. And Crowley weathered the feelings for the next 2000 years in silence, trying to forget them when they parted, falling flat on his face as head tumbled over treacherous heel each time they reunited.

Well, after 6000 years on Earth, you learn a thing or two. Things like, there’s a difference between love and worship, no matter what God says. Things like, nobody’s perfect, not even angels. Things like, even after 6000 years of knowing someone, they can still surprise you.

*

_London, present day._

One of the items on Crowley’s infinite list of things that made him want to throttle Aziraphale was his friend’s inability to wear his heart anywhere other than his sleeve. Aziraphale’s love was unbiased and untethered, disseminated freely among everyone – except Crowley, of course. Crowley knew his place, knew that an angel’s love was reserved for earthly beings.

“I know,” Aziraphale was saying, gesticulating emphatically, “I _know_ what you’re going to say.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped minutely as he struggled to play catch up on a conversation that had apparently been going on without his input. “You do?”

“Yes,” came the reply, “So stop staring at me like I—I just dented your car, or-or something.”

Ah. It was upsetting that Aziraphale could tell when Crowley was staring despite the glasses. Besides the obvious, avoiding vulnerability was one of the main reasons he wore the bloody things. “Ah, right. Well, what am I going to say?” Awfully convenient of Aziraphale to offer to fill him in.

“You’re going to say, ‘Angel, stop being such a goody two shoes, you can’t keep running around performing miracles for every puppy eyed stray human you meet because it makes my job awfully difficult.’ Or, you know, something to that general effect.”

Crowley hummed and nodded vaguely. “That does almost sound like me, yep.” Aziraphale was looking at him with that godawful look, like Crowley had let him down, and he couldn’t stand it. “I—yep. Ten out of ten performance. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t play me in my biopic.”

That did it. Aziraphale practically wiggled at the compliment, his face lighting up with glee. Crowley lived for that smile, and as Aziraphale looked away he allowed himself a moment of reprieve from keeping his expression carefully neutral. It was pathetic, and he knew it, but he let his gaze drop longingly to the angel’s dimples, his neck, his stupid bow tie – more familiar to him than his own reflection, and quite intentionally so.

Aziraphale looked back at him suddenly, and Crowley looked away, the vulnerability that had shattered like glass rebuilding itself studier and opaquer. “But if I play you, who’s going to play—”

“Hey, mister!” Crowley turned to scowl at the shrill voice that addressed his friend. It belonged to a young, freckled boy with a nest of unkempt ginger hair. “Jessica said you can turn water into chocolate milk.” He was holding up a glass of water expectantly. Aziraphale inhaled sharply and cast a long sideways glance at Crowley. Oh, that was just not fair. Weren’t angels supposed to play by the rules? There was an entire litany of verbal responses on the tip of Crowley’s tongue, and he came so close to grumbling all of them.

Instead, he rolled his serpentine eyes and snapped his fingers in front of the child’s eyes, whose expression instantly fell into mesmerised neutrality.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley dear.” Crowley only hummed in response.

As the two made a quick getaway, Crowley repressed a comment about stray angels and their puppy dog eyes. The demon would never understand Aziraphale’s adoration of the bumbling idiots, but if it was anything like his adoration of his own bumbling idiot… Well.

He’d never envied humans until he’d seen the way Aziraphale looked at them.

*

_Rome, 41 A.D._

“Another bottle?” the waiter inquired.

Aziraphale answered in the positive as Crowley answered in the negative. They both looked at one another in surprise. Crowley frowned at the hurt in Aziraphale’s eyes, completely taken aback, and then the two looked at the waiter again as Crowley stammered out noises that hardly resembled words, let alone a sentence.

“Ah, uh, euh – oh, go on then.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, and Crowley hid the quirk of his lip behind another oyster. “Oh, excellent! Jolly good. The same again, there’s a good chap.”

“I didn’t take you for such a devote Bacchian,” Crowley quipped once the waiter had scurried off again, in part to draw Aziraphale’s gaze away from where it trailed the man’s receding figure.

The angel laughed prettily, sipped the last of his wine, and licked his lips as he made eye contact with Crowley. “Yes, well I’m very devout. ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’, I always say.”

Crowley hummed appreciatively. “I like that,” he said, peeling his attention away from Aziraphale to consider the other guests. “Maybe it’ll catch on.”

Polonius’ restaurant was a lovely if ramshackle establishment. The low ceiling, stone walls, and assorted drapery gave it a private feel, the kind of place with plenty of hidden nooks. Somewhere, someone was playing the kithara. It was a rather dull instrument, Crowley thought. It could barely be heard of the ruckus at the bar in any case, but the musician was doing an admirable job of trying to match the tempo and tone of his audience.

Three gentlemen sprawled merrily across a stone bench caught Crowley’s eye. They were tucked in the corner of the room, sequestered beneath a canopy of leaves and vines that had spread from the courtyard into the restaurant through the shuttered holes that might someday be said to resemble windows. The overgrowth blotted out the last of the evening sun’s rays and would have plunged the men into total darkness were it not for the sparse candles that underlit their exaggerated, inebriated expressions.

Something about it struck Crowley, though he could not say what. One of the men half lay in the lap of the second, while the third fed him ripe green grapes. The juice made the man’s lip glisten in the flickering firelight.

“You know, if someone had told me a thousand years ago that I’d be dining with a _demon _before the millennium was out, I’d have – oh, _thank you_, dear boy,” he interjected, “wonderful!” The waiter had returned with the next bottle, and Crowley turned to see Aziraphale batting those great big eyes at the man. Crowley’s jaw clenched in irritation.

“If there’s anything else you need, sir—” the waiter began, but Crowley cut him off.

(If the demon didn’t know better, he’d have said the flush in his cheeks had been lit by hellfire.)

“That’s it, thanks. I’m sure you have other tables to attend to,” he retorted pointedly, ignoring the look Aziraphale shot him in favour of glaring at the waiter through his glasses. “Chop chop.” As the waiter bumbled away again, looking twice as confused as he had before, Crowley allowed himself a smirk as he poured himself another glass. Aziraphale was still scowling at him.

Crowley ignored it. “More wine?” he asked, raising the bottle.

“Crowley.”

“What?”

Aziraphale drew a breath, leaning forward conspiratorially, but seemed to think better of it. “Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What were we talking about?”

It was Crowley’s turn to draw a breath, and he shifted his position in the seat, legs widening slightly, elbows touching the table. “Um. Well, something about Bacchus, something about demons – actually, that’s a thought. Is it considered blasphemy to talk about Roman gods?”

Peering at Aziraphale over his glasses, Crowley watched the angel squirm uncomfortably at the question. “Well, of course not. We can talk about them as much as we want, as long as we don’t... you know…”

“Believe in them?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“So, are all these people going to hell, then? Is that the plan? It’s going to be awfully packed down there come doomsday if we’ve got to take on every waif and stray that doesn’t believe in G—”

“Oh, Crowley, _really_,” Aziraphale reprimanded. “Must we talk about such miserable things? I’m not the one in charge, you know. I’m just a—ah, you know—”

“An angel?”

Aziraphale nodded again, this time a little less coordinated, and closed his eyes for a few beats longer than a sober man might have. “That’s the one.” When he opened his eyes again, his expression had softened just slightly. The hazel of his eyes melted to a pale, seafoam green flecked with grey.

How had he leaned close enough to notice that?

They had met several times before, but they had never drunk alcohol together. Crowley was not entirely sure how to handle the situation – how to handle a tipsy angel, so he made the executive decision not to handle it at all.

Aziraphale smiled hazily at him, his eyes bright and tender.

Time and wine moved easily after that, and they passed from late night to early morning together. They were as old friends, rather than hereditary enemies, and it felt so natural that Crowley began to wonder about the things he had once been told were unnatural, and how these things were decided.

When he looked again for the three gentlemen who had been so happily entangled, he saw them disappearing out the door, as close as ever if not closer. He swallowed thickly.

“Time to call it a night, I think,” Crowley announced, and Aziraphale, who had begun to sway quite dangerously, nodded his bleary agreement. “I’ll get the tab this time—”

“No, no, no—!” Aziraphale tried to protest, but only succeeded in knocking an empty mug from the table in his drunken exuberance. A resounding cheer from the remaining occupants arose mere seconds after it smashed on the ground, and Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “Oh no,” he murmured, turning a lovely shade of beetroot.

“Not to worry, Az—Azra—Aziph—Aphira—A—Aza—ah, ugh, Az—_angel_,” Crowley sputtered, regretting the last word almost immediately as it left his mouth. Luckily, Aziraphale didn’t seem to have heard, so Crowley made a hasty beeline for the bar.

“Yes?” the woman asked, having to holler over the din. There was less than half of the patrons there had been when they’d arrived left, but they were more than making up for it in their inebriated craze. Crowley slid the assortment of silver coins toward her and jabbed his thumb in Aziraphale’s direction, who was currently slumped against the table.

She counted the coins wearily and then returned a few, saying, “Some of it’s already been paid for.”

“What? By who?” Crowley demanded.

“Oh, thank you, dear boy,” Crowley heard, and whipped around. The waiter had returned to clean up Aziraphale’s mess. Crowley let out a pained sigh and hurried to escort Aziraphale from the premises, his cheeks burning with fire.

“Come _on_, angel,” he muttered, resolutely avoiding the gaze of the waiter, and tried not to flinch when Aziraphale leaned into his touch.

**Author's Note:**

> haha I wrote this 2 months ago and didn't finish it because I suck. this is just the first part of something bigger. may or may not finish it but I figured it was a shame not to post it.


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